Pas de Deux
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Set between "Renaissance Man" and Endgame". Chakotay has a talent for symbolic gifts, and what better time for that than Christmas? Canon-compliant C/7.


Pas de Deux

By Laura Schiller

Based on: _Star Trek: Voyager_

Copyright: Paramount

[ _Author's Note: Chakotay speaking Spanish in this story is a reference to the work of my fellow fan fiction writers_ _ **scifiromance**_ _and_ _ **The Cheshire Cheese**_ _, which I highly recommend. Gracias!_ ]

Seven did not come to _Voyager_ 's annual Christmas party.

She told everyone who asked that it would be an inefficient use of her time, which earned her plenty of eye rolls from the crew and some affectionate scolding. To be honest, she was afraid to go. Since her last social experiments had triggered the Borg fail-safe that had nearly killed her, she decided it wasn't worth the risk. So she spent the evening in Cargo Bay Two, reading up on reports of the latest advances in technology from Starfleet and deciding whether any of them could be integrated into her astrometrics lab.

She had, at least, exchanged gifts with her closest friends over the course of the day. Their gifts for her, like hers for them, were very practical, as she had always preferred: a packet of tea from the Doctor to soothe her voice during singing lessons, a Borg-enhanced tricorder from Icheb, a set of sparkly but reliable hair pins from Naomi, and a pair of walking shoes from the Captain (high heels in the Ledosian jungle were a mistake she wouldn't repeat). The box of _lussekatter_ , Swedish saffron buns, was her favorite. It stood by her console as she worked.

She wondered what any of them would say if she asked for just one small thing that was neither practical nor edible. They'd either exaggerate their joy or scan her for brain damage. Possibly both.

The cargo bay doors opened, interrupting her thoughts. Some junior officer coming to fetch one of the crates of alcohol in the back, most likely. Not for the first time, she wondered if it was worth asking for her own quarters. But not now; Engineering was still in disarray since Lieutenant Carey's death. They didn't need the extra work of dismantling her regeneration alcove and installing it someplace else, especially since the smallest mistake might result in the assimilation of the ship.

"Those smell really good," said Commander Chakotay, coming up behind her. "Do you mind if I take one?"

Seven's hands gripped the edges of her console. Of all the people to be alone with … ! But if she stayed calm and professional, nothing could happen. She saved her file, clasped her hands behind her back and turned around to face him.

"Go ahead, Commander."

He took one of the pastries, ate it in two bites, and hummed approvingly in the back of his throat. "Mmm, thanks. Where did you get them?"

"My Aunt Irene sent me the replicator code. They seem to be a tradition, although I remember them tasting even better when I was a child."

"I know what you mean." His dimples showed when he smiled. "Nostalgia's the best spice for any meal. No Christmas food for me will ever live up to my abuela's _pan dulce._ "

Spanish? Of course. He had ancestral ties to both halves of the American continent. Holidays had a way of bringing one's heritage to the surface, universal translators notwithstanding. She always kept hers switched off because her cortical node could process every language anyway, so she could hear whenever someone wasn't speaking English. Captain Janeway had been quoting an Irish Gaelic carol on the bridge today, and even Lieutenant Torres cursed in Klingon when the Day of Honor came around.

Chakotay's Spanish was dangerously charming. What was he doing down here, anyway?

"I thought you were attending the party."

"I was, but I volunteered to take a turn on the bridge. I'm not much for crowds."

"I know." As a leader, he would attend public functions when he had to, but as an anthropologist, he preferred to analyze a group rather than join it. Perhaps, having left his people's traditional lifestyle for Starfleet and resigned from Starfleet for the Maquis, he was used to having an outsider's perspective. "Me too."

"Actually, um … before I go, there's something I wanted to tell you. To give you."

He sounded subdued, almost shy, as he held out a small object he had been carrying in one hand. It was a wooden, hand-carved by the look of it, and polished until it gleamed. He put it down on top of her console, wound a handle at the back, and opened it.

" _Feliz Navidad_ , Seven."

It was a music box, with a tiny metallic pair of dancers spinning inside: a man holding a woman by the waist. She stood _en pointe_ , on the tip of one toe, with her other leg stretched out straight behind her and both her arms poised like wings, ready to either fly away or land in his arms. A simplified version of a tune she knew well chimed delicately through the air, first fast, then slower and slower until it stopped.

It was not practical. The Seven of four years ago would have turned up her nose at it. Present-day Seven, however, could barely catch her breath.

"The waltz from Tchaikowsky's _Swan Lake_ … " Awe reduced Seven's voice to a hushed whisper. "This is exquisite … thank you … how did you even replicate it?"

"I didn't, exactly. I built it." Chakotay shrugged, looking proud and self-conscious at the same time of his intricate creation. "I carved the box, anyway. Tuvok helped with most of the finer details. He said he needed some kind of mechanical puzzle to work on after … well, after Quarra … and that this was easier than teaching Harry to play _kal-toh_."

Seven could just hear Tuvok saying that. He had come back from his week of psychiatric leave as inscrutable as ever, and he had not said a word about the outbursts of emotion the Quarrans' tampering had resulted in. Trust him to mend their friendship through actions instead, quiet actions that spoke more than a thousand words. The next time she saw her Vulcan mentor off duty, she wouldn't thank him. She would challenge him to the most riveting _kal-toh_ match of his life.

She reached out and touched the female dancer with one steel-tipped finger. "Which character is she? Odette or Odile?"

In _Swan Lake_ , the female lead plays two different characters: the white swan who leads the flock and the black swan who stands apart from it, both in love with the same prince. In the final act, the white swan pounds on a locked window for the prince to notice her, while the black swan dances with him, knowing that only an illusion makes it possible. In some versions, the white swan and the prince die together; in others, the black swan sacrifices herself to save them. Seven preferred it when all three of them survived.

"You could say she's both. Or neither. No woman should be reduced to a single archetype, don't you think? Nobody should. It took me years to get that through my thick skull … but I'm trying now."

Was he talking about more than _Swan Lake_ , or was that her imagination? "I did not know you were familiar with the story."

"A notorious perfectionist once told me she wanted to be a ballerina as a child. I thought any art form she admired that much would be worth looking into."

The perfectionist was herself. As a child, she had begged to be allowed to stay with Irene on Earth and take ballet lessons, only to be told it could wait until after the mission. As a former drone, she could relate on a bone-deep level to both the dancers' pursuit of perfection and the mythical swan women in their captivity. And as a woman, foolish and impossible though it might be, she still dreamed of a man to lift her up and hold her in his arms.

Chakotay had been right when he'd told her juvenile fantasies stuck with you.

"Honestly though," he said, catching her eyes, "I thought the prince was kind of an idiot." He flicked the top of the male dancer's head. "How could he not notice that he was dancing with a different woman than the one he invited? I hope I would." He met her eyes for a long moment.

"Can you dance?" _She_ could. The Doctor's social lessons had seen to that. But for pity's sake, why did her voice have to rise to an adolescent's squeak when she asked that question?

"Not ballet, if that's what you're asking." He grinned; she could see why. He really didn't have the body type for that. "But I can just about manage a waltz. I'll prove it if you like."

He wound up the music box a second time and held out his hand.

"Here? _Now_?" Cargo Bay Two was the least likely ballroom imaginable. It smelled of scrap metal, buzzed with the constant sound of the Borg alcoves, and was filled with shelves except for a few narrow aisles.

Chakotay only smiled mischievously. "Why not?"

Why not? He had no idea. A bitter laugh sounded in the back of her mind. A sensible ex-drone with a healthy survival instinct would have turned him down flat.

But the look in his eyes … only on the holodeck and in her dreams had any man looked at her like this. Was he actually attracted to her? Did she dare to believe it? But who was she to deny the facts when they were literally staring her in the face?

She had once slept all night (if chastely) curled up with the holographic Chakotay on a sofa, without the failsafe letting out more than a slight buzz. One dance was not going to kill her.

It was nothing like dancing with William Chapman, who had been stiff and clammy with nerves, or even the Doctor, programmed for a smooth lead and perfect timing. The design of the music box meant that it started playing at lightning speed just like in the ballet, Chakotay whirling her down the aisle so that the shelves blurred and her feet flew to keep up. They were both coordinated enough not to bump into anything, but there were several close calls. He was fast for such a big man, as boxers (and guerilla fighters) had to be. There was no keeping track of her internal chronometer. She had to trust him to lead.

As the music slowed, so did they. She became acutely aware of how close they were. She could smell him. Chapman had soaked himself in too much cologne, while the Doctor (as real and as endearing as he could otherwise be) had no scent at all. Neither had the Chakotay hologram. But this flesh-and-blood man smelled just right. Biochemistry was a powerful thing.

The music stopped.

He was flushed and wide-eyed, as if even he was surprised by the results of his idea. Heat radiated off him - and, yes, there was that warning buzz beginning in her cortical node. If one or the other of them didn't let go soon, it would only get louder.

If she was going to take this risk, it had better be an informed one.

"What are we doing, Commander?" She let go. "This is not the behavior of a colleague."

"Chakotay, please … and no, it's not." He took a step back, knowing without being told that she wanted space as much as she had wanted closeness a few seconds ago. "Because I'd like to become more than that. If I've gone too far, Seven, let me know and I'll stop. But if not, wouldn't you like to know where this dance might lead us?"

He seemed calm on the surface, almost matter-of-fact, as if he were presenting a new mission plan in the briefing room. But his eyes shone darker than ever, and she could not look away. He was speaking Spanish again. The language of his home.

"Are you asking me to pursue a romantic relationship with you?" Of all the awkward ways to say it. She didn't have his gift for metaphor. But if there ever was a need for Borg directness, it was now.

" _Si_."

 _Yes._ The most eloquent speech in the world couldn't have moved her more than that one word.

The Doctor had once told her she had a beautiful smile. She had practiced it in various reflective surfaces on the ship, and it had always looked as stiff and strained as it felt. But now her smile slipped out as naturally as blinking, and called an answering smile to Chakotay's face.

"I accept, Chakotay." She picked up the music box and cupped it in both hands. "I only I wish I had a Christmas gift for you."

Some men might have read an innuendo into that, but if he did, he kept it to himself. "Two hours of your holodeck time will suit me, whichever program you choose. Tomorrow, nineteen hundred?"

"Not tonight?"

He shrugged and glanced ruefully up at the ceiling, referring to their shipmates in the decks above them. "I'm due on the bridge, remember? If I don't relieve Crewman Jenkins so she can go to the party, she might send out a shipwide alert."

"Then by all means, go. I will see you tomorrow." Following an impulse, she put one hand on his well-muscled chest and gave him the lightest possible push.

"It's a date."

The doors of Cargo Bay Two slid shut between two very happy people.

Seven had believed for so long that the Borg had turned her unlovable, fellow survivors like Axum and her foster-children being the only exceptions. If that was true, she might as well keep the failsafe as a cautionary reminder. But if not, the device would have to be removed.

She did not look forward to going under the proverbial knife again. She looked forward even less to telling the Doctor that it was Chakotay who had caused this change of heart. The Doctor was in love with her. If he'd only told her earlier and in a less humiliating manner, she might even have grown to feel the same about her favorite duet partner. Even as things were, she hated to reject him. He was her best friend. They understood each other on a level even Chakotay, so far, did not.

She might be falling in love, but she was still Seven of Nine. She would deal with this efficiently or not at all. The failsafe could go if – and only if – she decided it was worth it. And for that, she would need more evidence.

Three dates. She would go on three dates with Chakotay. If he disappointed her (though she very much doubted it), they could always go back to the way things were before. She had nothing to lose.

If the dates went well, she would have everything to lose … but also everything to gain.

Seven tucked the little music box in the same container as her most treasured belongings, with plenty of bubble wrap between them: her parents' photograph, the clay sculptures made by her foster-children, and a get-well card Naomi had given her.

The failsafe had stopped buzzing, but her heart still sang.


End file.
